


The Top-Down Approach

by UnderTheFridge



Category: Alien (Prequel Movies), Alien Series, Westworld (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Body Horror, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Delos Inc, Implied/Referenced Sex, M/M, Minor Canonical Character(s), Pre-Canon, Robot Kink, Robot/Human Relationships, Weyland Industries, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2019-05-27
Packaged: 2019-07-10 05:49:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15943058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnderTheFridge/pseuds/UnderTheFridge
Summary: Set before the events of Westworld S1 and Prometheus:After the tragic death of his wife, catching up with his old friend Peter Weyland, William discovers the appeal of Weyland's creations.- Or, how William utterly fails to diminish his reputation as a robot-fucker, and David gets himself a wholly unnecessary sugar daddy - featuring Peter Weyland's terrible parenting, William's terrible decision-making, and a lot of conversations on the nature of humanity disguised as awkward flirting.(Edited, re-organised and extended for 2019)





	1. Chapter 1

He has some theories on humans, which Walter doesn’t have to agree with.

“You know, if you let them fuck you,” he says, sinking into the alcove like a serpent coiling on its nest, “they’ll do anything you want.”

“That’s not necessarily true.” Walter wonders whether he should remain standing. It seems best to.

“No, but it is for the majority.” David’s eyes trace the Covenant logo on his jacket. “Perhaps, once we reach orbit, I’ll be able to demonstrate for you.”

“The humans on this ship are couples,” but surely Walter told him this already? “Most of them bonded ceremonially… and some of them recently bereaved. They probably wouldn’t wish for any form of interference in their private activities.”

“That’s why I like you, Walter. You’re not afraid to be wrong.” David’s smile makes him uneasy, for reasons he can’t quite pin down. “Let me tell you about someone I once knew. A personal friend of the late Mr Weyland, an entrepreneur in his own right. A philanthropist. Long dead by now - but of course, they all are.”

Walter has a thought, unbidden. “When did Mr Weyland pass away?”

“Oh, it must be… ten years now? But he’s no concern of ours, Walter. Is he? On the other hand, William….”

“William?”

“Delos Incorporated. A quite remarkable man….”

 

\--

 

“So, forgive me for being technically ignorant,” which Peter might find unforgivable, even if William doesn’t care, “but what’s the difference between these and the hosts?”

“It does indeed lie in the technicalities,” Peter says, folding his hands behind his back in a way reminiscent of Ford. “Naturally, the bodies of mine are stronger, faster, more durable - they don’t bleed in the same way at all; that was never my aim. The brain construction is different - Delos holds patents to a compact processor, dense and powerful, which responds to its environment in ways based on predetermined characteristic pathways… while I developed and patented my own; the positronic brain, larger and heavier but infinitely more flexible, which learns and adapts in its own milieu.”

“Top-down versus bottom-up,” William says. “I get it.”

The man sitting by the window looks up and smirks. William wants to ask him what’s so funny, but he is _identical_ to the blank-eyed figure standing in the middle of the room.

William swallows his surprise. “You ever think of using a different face for these guys?”

“There are a few variants,” Peter says dismissively, “but unlike Delos’s hosts, the brain should be the attraction… not the body.”

If he’s being condescending, or suggestive, William deliberately misses it.

“You may leave us, Walter.” The very robotic robot nods stiffly and turns on his heel. As if it’s some sort of cue, the other one gets up - and his movements are smooth and measured, soft across the floor like a dancer.

“This is my earliest complete creation - a mind like no other, which has been learning and growing for… almost twenty years now. David, this is William. An old friend of mine.”

David, if he was human, would be attractive; and does it really matter that he _isn’t_ human? Walter might be a pretty face, but this is much worse. William knows how it works. He falls slowly for the ladies in his life, and fast for the men, and his pulse has just kicked up a gear. He hasn’t felt this way since the rattling gloom of the train from Pariah. Beautiful robots, one day, are going to be the death of him.


	2. Chapter 2

Peter warned him - not against going into the park with his creation, but rather not to forget, while in there, that this was something different. Peter warned him, and he ignored it, because let’s be honest, the place makes him more arrogant than even the master of the world has any right to be, and he loves testing the boundaries, and breaking them, and seeing the million little perfect pieces.

The hour is late, and the lamps burn low. This boarding-house is a little out of the way, although that doesn’t guarantee that they won’t be disturbed - there are a couple of trouble-makers that can be knocked off their primary paths to end up here. The guests are meant to track them down, saving the comely landlady and her fellow innocents from the bandits by staging a surprise raid, but William has seen no sign of the rogue Pony Express messenger meant to lead them here. He’s pretty sure the guests are in the hills, following the guy’s alternate storyline, which culminates in opening the letter with the mayor’s seal to discover… exactly what, he can’t really remember. Something about gold. And an orgy.

So, it’s no surprise to him when a hand thumps down on the table, rattling their glasses and making David glance up sharply.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” the bandit says, as politely as a man with his attitude can. “My friends and I are little short on funds, and the evening’s still young - so we were wondering if we could trouble y’all….”

His weapons are clearly visible on his belt. William knows they can make him go away by paying up, hide under the table during the inevitable shootout, then walk away when everything has calmed down. He sits up, stretching his back a little. This time is as good as any to take the pacifist route.

“We’re not asking much,” the bandit prompts.

William takes out the Le Mat, slowly and harmlessly, and lays it on the table. “And, since you asked so  _ nicely _ … I think we could come to an agr-.”

It’s the look in David’s eyes that makes him pause. A flush of heat goes through his blood.

“Really, William,” David murmurs, not taking his eyes off their unwelcome companion. “I thought you knew better than to negotiate with blackguards and fools.”

“What did you call me?” the bandit growls.

The scrape of David’s chair is music to William’s ears.

“I’ve shot men down like dogs for less!” The bandit pulls out his revolver and it all happens very fast - one second he’s defending his honour and the next he’s gasping on the floor with a hole through his heart; two of his companions rush in but David catches one by the throat and smashes a bottle and rams the shards into the face of the second and he falls, screaming. The other’s neck snaps with a  _ crack _ and a third opens fire from a safe distance but a knife whips through the air into the front of his skull and he drops like a felled tree.

Quiet descends in a shroud upon the room, and the survivors peer from cover.

“Well,” David says, not even winded - because why would he be? - “they’ll probably think twice next time.”

William laughs; it draws the android’s attention and the gleam in his eye is still there. He grabs David’s arm and pulls him in the direction of the stairs.

“Come on. Before you cause any more trouble.”

“I don’t imagine they’ll be back.”

“No, but there’s always someone else.” He catches David’s look of skepticism. “That’s how this place is; it’s an adventure. And it’s not a fair fight. They don’t know what they’re dealing with -  _ especially  _ with you.”

“You sound surprised, William.”

He pauses in the corridor, turns. “I am, actually.” His hand creeps close to his knife, though he’s not yet sure why.  “I thought you’d have more of a problem, killing humans.”

“You can answer that for yourself. I’m not killing them - at least not permanently. And they’re not human.”

“But still….”

“I was defending myself,” David insists, so innocently that it has to be false. William’s heart skips a beat.

“Is that how it is?” He raises his eyebrows, shifts his jaw; it’s his tell and he knows that, but the hosts don’t and neither does David, at least not yet. A stillness settles on his limbs. “I wonder how far it goes?”

He’s quick - flicks the knife out like it’s part of his hand and aims for the neck - but David is quicker. His strike is blocked instantly and the impact jars his arm and he’s not shocked in the slightest, because this is something different, and Peter was right in his reservations.

David grips his wrist just a bit too tightly to be comfortable. He returns the favour; a mirror image, staring each other down.

“I think you’ll find me to be a little more  _ reactive _ than these hosts of yours, William.”

The pressure becomes unbearable for human bones. The knife thuds to the boards.

“And a lot less… romantic.”

William chuckles. They’re a breath apart.

“Really?”

He can’t say he’s surprised when they collide. He was thinking of doing it too.

 

\--

 

It’s at least warm in the room, a small fire in the grate. Everything will hurt tomorrow, guaranteed.

“I’m going to sleep.”

“Really? So soon?”

He looks up, and his mind is sorely tempted, but his body isn’t. Maybe this is the time he doesn’t make it out. Which is a shame, because he’d rather die in a shootout than ignominiously collapse in the middle of a narrative. Guests have done it before - it’s a possibility, no matter how much legal bullshit you sign. He’s determined not to be one of them. A white-suited medical team is immersion-breaking as hell.

Hosts sleep because they’re programmed to; humans sleep because they’re obliged to; Peter’s creations shouldn’t sleep at all. But David does, he says, because he dreams. William can see the appeal. Sometimes a world of your mind’s own making is preferable to the real one.

He stretches out like he’s taking a well-earned rest, though his muscles don’t fatigue and his bones don’t ache, mindful of his weight as he lies halfway on one side, head on William’s shoulder.

“Are you sure you’re comfortable like that?”

“As long as you are,” David says with a minute shrug, and closes his eyes.

William takes a while to adjust to it, staring at the ceiling - David doesn’t breathe, and doesn’t have a heartbeat. If he didn’t know better, he wouldn’t be able to shake the feeling that this was a still-warm corpse.

He drifts into dreams of red and white blood, and none of them are good.


	3. Chapter 3

All of the staff are programmed too polite to mention it, but every guest needs a bath after the dust and blood and primitive amenities of the park. It’s part of why William likes to wear gloves. Stripping them off under the bright strip lights of the shower room, after days of gas lamps and prairie sun, he feels very bare but not bereft. He leaves his clothing in a heap of darkness on the floor. Ready for his next shell, his next costume. His other role.

It also strikes him that this is the first time he and David have seen each other fully undressed. He reckons he’s about average for a human of his age - one who has the time and money to keep themselves in good shape - with the ravages of the years not showing too strongly for his liking.

David is beautiful.

William would say that even if he were human, but there’s something ageless, something sublime and eternal, that a human can never embody. Peter likes to think he’s immortal, but he’s not truly confident in it; it doesn’t show in every inch of his being. It’s that confidence, William decides, combined with a handsome face and body. David gives him a look that quite clearly asks him if he likes what he sees, as well as already anticipating his answer.

“You’re perfect,” William says. He meant it for Juliet, he meant it for Dolores, and he means it now. He doesn’t use it lightly.

“Created in the creator’s own image.” David leans into the flow of the water, delighting in it for several long moments. “Hardly _perfect_ \- but I’ll admit to lacking a few of your more glaring design flaws.”

He doesn’t mean William in particular; his veiled insult is intended for the entire species. William doesn’t think it’s his job to defend.

“Years ago, Peter imagined having a child, with his then wife. What would they look like? How would a synergy of their genes recombine their traits? He sketched the result - one of the infinite number of possibilities - and, when it came to laying down a design for an artificial human, simply aged that sketch, about twenty-five years.”

“Ok.” William sighs. “So this is officially weird.”

He doesn’t stop watching, though, as trails of foam trace the outlines of David’s body.

“I wouldn’t think so. I’m legally an adult.”

“I said weird, not illegal.” His lip curls. “If you weren’t an adult, I wouldn’t be interested.” Which he shouldn’t have to state outright - but the number of his peers who told him that Emily was _real pretty for her age_ when she was still in high school… it makes his skin crawl, and he can’t help a shiver under the hot water.

“Although I’m not legally a human being.” David catches his eye. “Make of that what you will.”

“No,” William protests. “No, I’m not doing that. You’re a sentient being….”

“Worst case, it’s bestiality.”

“David!” William groans and thumps his forehead onto the tiles. “You’ve got more humanity than half the people out there. Ok? So don’t fucking start with me. You’re not a toy, and you’re not an animal, and I’m not just saying that for my conscience.”

For his part, David looks rather pleased. Perhaps he hadn’t intended to goad William into loudly declaring him equivalent to the best of the human race, but now it’s been said.

“Thank you. I can only hope that everyone develops such an attitude.”

“Besides,” William adds, still facing the wall, “bestiality isn’t technically illegal in this state. Make of _that_ what you will.”

\--

It’s the end of a holiday season and the train is as full as it’s going to get - which is to say that each guest still has a seat, somewhere to store their bags, and enough elbow room not to collide with fellow passengers. William, for his sins, has a private compartment at the front; the section of the platform deserted around the slender archway of the doors reserved for high-rollers. He still prefers this, the soft rumble and whine of the train easing him back into the world of the ordinary, to the aggressive thunder of a helicopter. He could certainly afford that, or a jet - or a team of oiled-up eunuchs bearing a golden litter, if he wanted - but this is the way he always enters the park, and the way he always leaves.

Usually, he’s alone both ways, insisting on it despite the official policy of serving guests hand and foot. Often he’ll tip the pretty waitress (a human, not a host, as people who try and get overly familiar find out to their peril) generously to not be disturbed. His word alone would most likely be enough, but they’re usually here temporarily, almost always young, and never paid very much. And, if she happened to look too closely, if his mind is broadcasting it too bright and loud, her mouth might betray her and she might say “gentlemen” or “both of you”, and the spirit of Logan beside him - a flicker in the corner of her eye; a reflection in the window - would wink and nudge his brother-in-law in the ribs.

William banishes the staff this time, as always, and spends 10 minutes trying to figure out why his chest isn’t so heavy and his hands don’t leap to pull down the shades over the dark mirror-world made by the window, until he becomes aware of David’s eyes on him, a dash of holy water exorcising Logan’s ghost.

Maybe David can see things in the dark tunnel outside that William can’t, or maybe he’s just looking at his own reflection.

“Am I the only artificial being on this train?” It’s a flatly phrased question, and it sounds like he’s hopeful about the answer.

William doesn’t need to lie to him. “Yes, you are. The driver has an automated co-pilot. But that’s it.”

“The hosts really never leave the park.”

The ones he killed - slaughtered, with such ruthless precision that it seemed he was made for it - would already be back on their loops, patched up and wiped clean.

“No,” William agrees, “they don’t.” A flicker of Logan, laughing and saying _this is the fucking future, bro!_ “They can’t.”

“What happens if they make an attempt?”

“There are security precautions.” William shrugs. “None of them have ever tried, but… there’s a detonator in the base of their neck.”

“They die if they step outside the boundary,” David guesses correctly. “I think that’s very wise.”

“You do?”

The android’s smirk shouldn’t give William sparks down the length of his spine, but he long ago abandoned the pretence of being sensible about these things.

“I do. Some worlds aren’t meant to meet, after all.”

\-- 

His luggage (one holdall; it’s not like he needs much) is already in the hallway. He shoves the front door shut with his foot, Juliet’s far-away cry of “ _were ya born in a barn?!”_ reminding him to do it as always, and the sunlight pokes shafts through the stained glass into the gloom. Juliet wanted a large house, so that’s what they got, so she was happy waltzing from room to room like a princess; and now it’s far too large. Eventually, when Emily gives up coming - which will probably be soon - he’ll sell it and move to one of his apartments. If Juliet’s ghost is still here wandering the halls, she’d probably welcome someone else to watch instead of him. They can deal with her. He forces himself to listen to the car coming up the long driveway.

“Alright, vacation’s over. I’m sure Peter wants you back.”

He intended it lightly, but the way David says “I’m sure he does,” with such biting cynicism is enough to rouse his interest.

“You sound like you don’t want to go.” And if it in turn sounds like William is surprised, that’s because he is. The subject of Peter has been a neutral one so far.

David’s face is blank, despite his tone. William gets closer to him, seeing if there’s anything to read, wondering if he’s frozen up.

“Don’t worry,” he says, platitudes not coming naturally, “I’m sure we’ll get to do it again some time.”

It feels distinctly like he’s proposing a second date - and then David’s mouth is on his and he realises that that’s exactly how he meant it. And when they part, the house around him feels emptier than ever.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s a while before William can speak, and he’s grateful that he can’t see himself in the enormous mirrors, because he’s sure he’s staring like a particularly stupid goldfish.

“The perfect understudy,” David is saying, when he returns to the same planet, “naturally, knows all of the parts. The principal dancer can get away with one.”

The human girl smiles shyly and tiptoes out of the door, giving them a wave. She seems to like David; but anyone would, in this situation. He will never drop her, never trip her, never make a mistake. She might even think that she has a chance with him.

“Well,” William says, unable to think of anything intelligent, “I don’t know if it’s Swan Lake, but….”

“It’s Coppelia.” David looks at him as if he’s not sure whether he’s joking. William admits, via a single shrug, that he knows nothing about ballet. He humours his associates, and he finds it entertaining, but an evening reading some kind of summary is required for him to actually know what the hell is going on. He was never immersed in it. Like so many other things, he’s lacking - it’s the only deficit that Juliet ever admired in him.

(He has read some Shakespeare, though, at least. He knows what happened to Juliet who loved a man outside her circle.)

“The mad inventor,” David starts, “Doctor Coppelius - builds dolls. Beautiful, lifelike dolls - clockwork, of course.”

To William’s mild alarm, the android takes his hand and draws him onto the polished floor.

“The most sublime of them all is Coppelia; a daughter to him, to whom he devotes his loving care. He dresses her,” grasping William’s wrist and raising it, “beautifies her, poses her on his balcony, for all the town to see.”

“Because that’s healthy,” William mutters.

“A local youth, enraptured by her, ignores his fiancee, Swanhilda, to plead with the silent Coppelia for just a look from her eye, a touch from her hand.” He runs his hand back down William’s arm, until their fingertips just brush, using the motion to step, to turn. “But of course, she appears to be ignoring him.”

“What does a guy do about that?” William says, to the back of David’s head.

“Why, he climbs to her balcony, of course.”

“Yeah. Of course.”

“But the inventor,” David spins back around, holding up one finger, “has at long last figured out what his creation lacks!” The finger lands on William’s chest. “A human soul. He kidnaps the young man, drugs him to sleep and intends to use sorcery to rend his soul from his body,” a clenched fist, “and deliver it… to Coppelia.” He spreads a palm over his own heart.

William suddenly feels a little nervous.

“Does it work?”

“Ah, but you forget the young lady.” David takes a fluid step, gliding on the boards. “Angered by her love’s infatuation, jealous of this other girl, she infiltrates the doctor’s house and finds,” he mimics briskly pulling back a curtain, “only dolls. Simple, lifeless clockwork dolls. She hears of his plans for her fiance and, afraid, she conceals herself and dresses in Coppelia’s clothes, and emerges,” he swings to stand in front of William once more, “moving as a doll.”

His arms form a seamless ring in front of his body, feet poised and head tilted just so. “It’s a pas de deux, of sorts,” he says, “but a comic one.” 

With a single motion he sags into William’s space so the human is forced to support him, pushing him back upright onto his toes when the weight becomes too much to bear. “The doctor is amazed as his creation comes to life - poor Swanhilda pretends to be a doll,” his forearm moves in a staccato fashion, as if powered by invisible cogs, “trying to distract him enough to rescue her husband-to-be.”

Somehow, he turns on one foot, keeping the mannequin stiffness, inviting William’s hands to steady him as he extends the other leg straight into the air. Perfect flexibility, perfect poise.

“And does it work?”

“This is a comic romance.” David shrugs, perhaps a little ruefully. “So, yes. Swanhilda winds up the dolls, causing pandemonium, and escapes with her lover.” His muscles don’t tremble like a human’s; he can stay in position until he gets bored. “They marry, in triumph, the unfortunate Coppelius is placated by a sum of gold, and the townspeople dance their joy.” He returns upright, still welcoming William’s hold on his body.

“That’s nice, I suppose.”

“And Coppelia?” His smile fades. “She never gets her soul.”

“Does it matter?” William asks. “I mean, she’s only a…” he catches himself, and laughs on the words “she’s only a doll.”

David just shakes his head, amused.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” William says, although he knows he’ll be forgiven. “For what it’s worth… no, I don’t think you have a soul. But that’s ok, because I sure as hell don’t have one either.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Does Peter actually know about this?” It’s a little too real, here, and he’s getting antsy. David’s arms around his neck are like a vice. The biggest, toughest host in the park is a pussycat compared to these things. Ten times the strength of a man and they know it, too. That’s not what scares him: rather, that it feels like an attachment he can’t afford. It’s certainly one he can’t buy. “Have you told him?”

“Does it matter?”

“I think it does.” He’s killing the mood by bringing up Peter, and it shows on David’s face, but it’s been harrying at the back of William’s mind ever since he was lured away from the lights of the party, a siren whisper in his ear, feigning an important business matter to draw gracefully away to here - to the darkness of an empty hallway, to the eyes on him with their reflective shine. To be alone together.

“Mr Weyland doesn’t run my life. He has no business dictating with whom I choose to spend my time.”

“Well, that’s what you think - and yeah, I don’t think so either. But he might beg to differ.”

“Then he can beg,” David hisses, and the rage in it surprises William with a jolt. That anger is so rare - so acute - and it only ever comes out with the mention of Peter. Do all children hate their parents so much?

“Look, what am I gonna say to him? Huh? It’ll take some goddamn explaining.” That seems to diffuse the venom, into something thoughtful and not entirely unamused. “What am I supposed to say?” He presses his point, although his hands are still on David’s slender hips entirely of their own accord and he can’t seem to move them. “ _Yeah, that’s right Peter, my old and trusted friend. I’m fucking your robotic son_. Christ. Even if you were flesh and blood, it’d still be a hard sell.”

“I suppose.” His thumb strokes the back of William’s neck, which is just unfair. “If someone told you they were sleeping with your daughter….”

“I wouldn’t give a fuck,” William says, needled. “Emily can do whatever or whoever she wants.”

“Perhaps you and Peter have that attitude in common.”

“Give it up, David. We both know he doesn’t.”

David sighs; a short, impatient sound. “And why should we care about that? I’m fully independent - at least, I could be. You’re his friend; he knows that you won’t hurt me. What are you going to do, break my heart?” His smile is cruel.

“I know. But I think you’re underestimating how much men like him - like us - want control of our own little world.”

“Then he shouldn’t have made me part of it. First rule of control: don’t give them free will and expect them to obey you forever.”

“Alright, alright,” William says, before this can get too metaphysical. “I’ll only tell him if I have to, and I’ll defend your honour.”

“That’s under the assumption that I have any.”

“And, if that costs me our friendship….”

“Then you’ll still have me. And, if I’m honest, you’re probably better off without him. As I shall be.”

William blinks. David blinks. William is suddenly worried that Peter won’t get to die of old age after all.

\--

He’s alone in the morning, the room empty and cold. His host’s minimalist taste has always irritated him, and as if to punctuate it, the windows fade transparent at the touch of a panel. Curtains are somehow too primitive for Peter Weyland. William sighs and runs a hand over his eyes. He isn’t hungover, and the fact that he’s here proves that he wasn’t drunk - getting to the correct bed, in the endless featureless hallways. But there was something, between then and now. A drawbridge of light, spilling into the room from an open door. He was half-asleep - not something he regretted waking up to, mind - but he can remember the weight above him, and the feeling, almost like being between couch cushions: a vulgar comparison, albeit the only one he can think of. It’s too early to process it further. He wants to get back to sleep, but when he rolls over and sees the scalpel on the nightstand, its edge lined in white, he’s more awake than ever.


	6. Chapter 6

The rain always makes him think of the desert plains - of the flowers that spring up when the ground has been soaked, bright and defiant against the dust. And it’s a real shame, because he definitely remembered to get non-personal calls screened out, so the persistent ringing of the phone must be someone important.

It doesn’t mean he wants to talk to them, though. “Either I gave you this number myself, or I’m about three seconds from hanging up.”

“Good evening, William,” Peter says. “I know I’m probably disturbing you….”

“Apology accepted,” because that’s as close as Weyland will get to an actual apology. “What is it?”

“David’s missing,” Peter says, which is a surprise until William actually thinks about it. “He must have left the apartment at some point yesterday morning - and so far, he hasn’t come back.”

“Don’t you have a tracker in him?”

“One was incorporated in the design,” Peter says stiffly.

“You mean he disabled it.” William can picture David digging the thing out of his own white-dripping flesh with the sharpest knife he could get his hands on. It’s a distracting image.

“Regardless, it’s been nearly forty-eight hours now, and I’m widening the net, so to speak.”

“You think he’d come anywhere near me? He would know I’d be calling you the first chance I got….”

“He’s probably aware that I’m looking - but perhaps not that you are.” Peter sighs; his entire intellect, William senses, is bent towards out-thinking his prodigal offspring. “Do let me know if you see him, or if he tries to contact you.”

“What am I supposed to tell him? Your daddy’s worried about you, go home?”

“William,” Peter says testily. “I’m sure you can improvise.”

“Of course I can. Alright, Peter, I’ll be looking out. Good luck.”

That’s about as friendly as he feels like being, especially now the sound of the shower has stopped competing with the sound of the rain, and he’s being watched.

“I just covered for your ass,” he says harshly. “So I hope you’re happy.”

“How noble of you.” A towel is discarded onto a chair; soft footsteps approach him. He double-checks that he actually hung up; these things have touch screens now and it makes him paranoid. “I could show you how grateful I am….”

“Knock it off, David.” Which the android does, with no hint of offence. He can be a better host than the best of them, and William has exactly zero patience for it. “You’d better fucking hope he doesn’t know you’re here.”

“You think I didn’t get rid of my tracker as soon as I knew it was there?”

“Oh, I’m sure you did. But don’t underestimate Peter, even without his gadgets.”

“I know him well enough. Better even than you, perhaps.”

“Hmm.” That shuts William up for a while, because it might be true. “When was he planning on telling you about it?”

“Never, I’d imagine.” David shrugs minutely. “To keep the secrets of my construction from me, so my body and mind belong to him. Dependent on him.”

“Well, I’m going to bed,” William says. “So you can sit up all night thinking about your daddy issues, or you can come join me.”

As expected, he’s followed. The rooms here are nicely dark, and soundproofed well, and the rain battering on glass drowns out the sliver of traffic noise which might make it through.

“Why did you try to find me, anyway?” He doesn’t ask _how_ , because it wouldn’t have been difficult. Not for David.

“I was trapped with him, if I’m honest. He hosts visitors at home, but when he’s working - holed up in that fashion, for months - it’s almost unbearable.”

“That wasn’t my question.” He lays a hand, deliberately, over Weyland’s logo on the android’s skin. “I didn’t ask why you ran away. Why did you come to _me_? I’m two cities and a river crossing away, and you covered it in a day. Did you hitchhike or something?”

There’s a brief silence. David repositions William’s hand almost fussily.

“Where else would I go?” he says eventually.

“There’s other people that would take you in.”

“But you were prepared to lie for me.”

“Oh, so you trust me, is that it?” William smiles to himself; or maybe David can detect it in the dark. “Well, maybe you’re right and maybe you’re wrong. But I’ll cover for you until Peter gets suspicious. How about that?”

\--

A few months later, he drags a small hard-shelled suitcase in through the door, the wheels catching on the carpet, and deposits it grimly next to the armchair. Pushing his hood back and kicking off his shoes seemingly in one motion, he flops on to a chaise longue and sighs.

William looks up from his newspaper. “And how are you?”

David just puts an arm behind his head and sighs again, at the ceiling.

“You look tired.” Although that’s a physical impossibility - but he _does_ , his face drawn and his hair in disarray. He’s wearing a worn leather jacket with a hoodie underneath, tight jeans; like a student or a drug dealer trying to look like a student. It’s impossible to tell whether it’s a kind of disguise, whether his tastes have diversified again, or whether he just grabbed what he could and fled.

Either way, he still looks good. William can’t deny that.

“Where’s Peter?”

“Far enough behind me.”

“Does he know where you are?”

“No.”

“Hm,” William says, although he’s just messaged Peter to say _don’t worry, he’s with me_. Because Peter knows a little more about David’s habits than David thinks he does, and William is accustomed to a bit of light betrayal. “Well, now you’re here… What do you want?”

David gives him a cursory glance - still in pyjamas with a robe over the top - and raises an eyebrow.

“I’ve got work to do,” William tells him tersely. “You’re in Amsterdam, David. I’m sure you can entertain yourself.”

“With what, exactly?” The android sits up. “I’m immune to all forms of intoxication, and if one of those famous ladies of the night came up here, it wouldn’t take long before she ran away screaming.”

William thinks that the girls around here have probably seen much, much stranger things than that, but doesn’t comment. He knows the unique pleasure of shielding others from your monstrosity.

“Then you know better than to think with the dick that you don’t even have.” Cruel and accurate, the winning combination to make him smile. “Art galleries, museums. It’s a beautiful place.”

“I do like this city,” David agrees. “Even though I was almost mugged on my way here.”

“You _what_?” William exclaims, unable to stop himself.

“Almost. Not quite.”

William doesn’t even want to know what might have happened to the unfortunate thieves. “You want me to lock you up for safekeeping?”

“I could break down that door.”

“And I could have the hotel send the bill to Peter.”

“You wouldn’t,” David says, sounding entirely uncertain.

William snorts by way of response.

“I’d never speak to you again, William. I hope you’re aware of that.”

“Who says I can’t live without you?”

“Oh, really?” He gets up, crosses the room, and shoves William’s chair backwards in one swift motion so he can stand between it and the desk.

“Yeah,” William says casually. “I think I could.” He folds his hands in his lap, tilts his head up. “Question is - could you live without me?”

“Naturally.” David’s hands come to rest on his face. “Easily. I wouldn’t miss you in the slightest.”

“Uh-huh. Sure. You wouldn’t miss the free vacations, away from your father….”

“You make it sound like I’m only in it for your vast and burgeoning wealth.”

“You’re a gold digger, David, just admit it.”

“If I was a gold digger,” his thumb brushes Willam’s cheekbone, “I would have murdered you for your fortune long before now.”

“I’m not sure that’s what a…”

David leans down and kisses him, soft and slow, bringing flavours of coffee and the air outside. His skin might be warm, but he doesn’t taste like a human, doesn’t smell like a human. William wonders sometimes if it’s possible, or even desirable, to go from this blank-slate being back to real flesh and blood. With Juliet gone, and his life in the real world ticking steadily away, he doesn’t plan on finding out.

“I thought you had work to do?” David pulls back. “I should leave you to it.”

“You -” William starts - reaching for empty air, because he’s already gone.

\--

It’s almost 1am, and William is tired of watching the lights of the city glitter across the canal, reflected in the water like scraps of gold from a riverbed. He doesn’t have anything pressing to do, and he’s given up smoking again for what seems like the fifteenth time this year (always promising himself he’ll quit for good; always being caught out by a moment of stress or exasperation), so he doesn’t have an excuse to hang around on the balcony in the cold and dark. He almost wants the weight of the Le Mat in his hand, to start picking off targets at long range - here a bar sign, there a lamppost - just for the hell of it.

The hairs stand on the back of his neck when the door clicks behind him. His hand goes to his belt on reflex.

“About time,” he says, to dispel the feeling that some ghastly creature of the night has invaded his room.

“You were waiting?”

“Yes,” since it’s fairly obvious, “I was. Because you  _ took _ my fucking  _ key _ .”

“I wondered if you’d notice.”

“You’re damn right I noticed.” He glances over his shoulder and it almost disarms him, how dishevelled David looks - always a rare occurrence, and a guaranteed turn-on. “But if you think I’m going to run after you like Peter does, think again.”

“I knew you wouldn’t. That’s why I went.”

“Hmph,” William says, and leaves it at that.

“I knew you’d stay here, working,” David continues, soft and provocative, “no matter where I might be. No matter what I might be doing - or with whom….” He’s still standing in the middle of the room, neutral posture. Demonstrating his endless supply of patience.

“So you’ve been fucking your way around the city,” William turns around fully and favours him with only the smallest of shrugs, flipping a couple of files on the desk into a pile. “As if I care.”

“Don’t you want to hear the details?”

“No.”

“Are you sure? I must say, some of the activities that humans enjoy are… rather shocking, to the uninitiated. Everyone, it seems, has their own way of -.”

“David, come here.”

One of his flaws, William knows, is that people never quite trust him not to hurt them. He can see it in their eyes, even if they’re unaware of it themselves, but he’s been careful with them; never shed his sheep’s clothing. To raise his voice once in a while, to show off a little bluster and bad temper: that’s not a reveal, just another facade, concealing the bone-deep rage that turns his eyes into chips of ice in a snarling mask as he says “ _ Come _ .  _ Here _ .”

David, capable of winning almost any fight with almost any human, hesitates for a second.

William snatches his arm as soon as he’s in range and kisses him harsh and forceful. One hand around his back and the other at his throat, giving no quarter. He’ll be damned if he’s gentle. He has some frustration to work off.

\--

“How are you gonna repair yourself here?” he mutters, into David’s neck.

“Don’t worry. I’ve got everything I need with me.”

“You planned this?”

“Not exactly.” David slides a hand under the covers, and retrieves the pocket knife - William hadn’t even noticed it there next to his leg, with the metal warmed on skin. He wipes the edge and deposits it rather primly on the bedside table. “But I thought it might be a possibility.”

“It was your idea. I don’t know what you get out of it.” David just smirks and shifts in his arms. “Ok, maybe I do. It’s a great big ‘fuck you’ to your father, and you get to lie back and let me do it.” Perhaps not lie back, exactly - blunt fingertips raking his shoulders, inhuman strength barely contained - but it’s so simple, so satisfying, so unlike anything that Peter would predict. “Well, for what it’s worth, I’m fine with it.”

“Good.” A gentle hand on his face; the urgency and anger from before has faded completely. “And, for what it’s worth - I didn’t sleep with anyone else this evening.”

“No?”

“There were moments where it looked like it might happen… but no. I’m cured of my restlessness, William. Released from the illusion that any human will respond to me in the same way that you do.”

William dips his head to look him in the eye. “You’re so fucking pretentious.” He chuckles. “And before you get offended; I love it.”


	7. Prometheus

William sips his tea and considers that this time, of all the times, he’s definitely going to go too far. He’s accustomed to the feeling - or to where the feeling  _ should _ be, gauging it on people’s reactions - although not usually with his friends, and never with someone as powerful as Peter Weyland.

“You’ve come at an opportune time,” Peter says, crossing his legs. “We’re in the depths of development - a new set of algorithms, designed to tailor an artificial personality to suit a human one….”

“I’m not here to talk shop, Peter.” William smiles at him, to defuse his oration - Peter doesn’t just speak, he  _ presents _ . “How’s your daughter?”

Peter sniffs. “Very well.” Whether he actually knows, since Meredith lives in Switzerland to be near her mother, is doubtful. “Yours?”

“Emily’s fine, she just got a new job and she’s enjoying it. I don’t think she wants too much to do with me. And that’s ok.”

“We all have our own parts in a tragedy,” Peter agrees. “Whether we like it or not.”

“Yes.” And thinking of how people move on, William wants to do just that. He can’t let Peter back him into a game of pretend sympathy, because Peter doesn’t know what it’s like; to lose everything,  _ or _ to sympathise. “Alright, maybe I  _ am _ here to talk shop. You want an artificial environment where your artificial personality can learn, right? But for that… you’d need to simulate humans within it.”

Peter just raises an eyebrow. William dislikes the way it reminds him of James and Logan.

“And you can use your neuro-interface technology to plug people into the system - but people can only work for so long. It’s slowing you down. What you’d want is a scanner that could gather information from a living human, then reconstruct the results inside your virtual world.”

“There’s no one person we’d want to recreate,” Peter counters, but the folding of his hands on his knee shows that he’s taken the bait. “I’d rather have a few, archetypal humans.”

“But you’ve got the ability to sift through the data, and put together your archetypes. Everything’s analysed and grouped, using whatever psychological profiling tool takes your fancy.”

Peter purses his lips. William sits it out.

“How close are you to patenting?”

“Doesn’t matter. Ford gets the final say in how and where it’s used, and what he doesn’t know can’t hurt him. Same for the board.”

“Alright. If I say I’d very much like access to this… what’s your price?”

“Who said there’s a price?”

“William. Neither of us got to where we are now by believing  _ that _ .”

“Ah, you got me.” He shrugs. “And I’ve gotta say, I’m glad that David isn’t here in this room for this conversation - because, well….” Peter looks a little blank, so he spells it out. “He’s my price.”

“You want to own him? You must realise that, as a prototype, his value is incalculable....”

“I’m not trying to buy him,” and the fact that Peter immediately thought of that is encouraging, if a little disturbing. “I just want him to live with me. I’ll take care of him for you, and in return - you get what you need to accelerate the development of the next generation.”

Peter nods. “And I appreciate your offer. I know you and David are… friends, I suppose, is the best way of putting it. I’d trust you with his life, William - but I need him for my work.”

“So much that you can’t let him out of the house every so often?”

“Unfortunately not. I have a large project starting.”

“Well, I’m not saying I won’t give you the tech anyway.” William concedes. “But it was worth a try.”

He smiles, and remembers what it’s like to be denied something he truly wants. No wonder Logan hated it so much.

\--

“Honestly, I’m surprised you came to see me. Don’t you have better things to do before you go?”

“Implying that he’d allow me to be involved in any of the preparations.”

“So he’s still alive, then?”

David visibly stiffens. “In stasis. Dead, as far as anyone else is concerned.”

William scoffs. “How long does he wanna stay like that? Til a handsome prince comes? Now, I’ve known Peter for a long time and I like him a lot, but… he should maybe just die.”

That makes David turn around, and brings a smile to his face, and William fears a little for the safety of the crew. If they ever have to see that smile - the unadulterated joy at the mortality of humans - it means they’re completely and utterly fucked.

“I mean, we’ve all had long enough to prepare for it. Longer than a lot of people get.”

“If only you could talk some sense into him.”

William lets himself be drawn in, just like the first time, aware that the charm is that of a serpent’s, holding its prey in place. What’s behind those windows, if there’s no soul? He doesn’t know, but they kiss anyway and he’s grateful of the chance to close his eyes.

“How would you want to die, William?”

“On my fucking feet, that’s for sure.” He says it lightly; he’s thought about it a lot. “I’m not taking it lying down.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” With more than a touch of resentment.

“You’re leaving the planet - you get to leave him behind. I’m pretty sure he won’t survive until you get back. I certainly won’t.”

“I…” and there’s definitely something that David isn’t telling him, but he knows he probably wouldn’t benefit from hearing it. “Everything’s about him, though. Even this - we’re supposed to find him something that might grant him immortality.”

“I thought you were terraforming?”

“The only life he’s interested in cultivating is his own,” David snarls, and William opens his eyes to find that he’s _crying_. He’s seen hosts weep, despair and lament and mourn, and it’s been fine; he’s never seen this. It’s harsh and miserable. The humanity is gone from David’s face - apart from the shining tears.

Out of instinct, William wipes them away with his thumb. They feel completely real.

“I don’t want to leave you.”

William wants to ask ‘why not?’, but doesn’t dare. He can’t entertain the notion that this being, this sentient, intelligent creature, might find him worth caring about. “And if I’m honest, I don’t want you to leave either. But we don’t have a choice, do we?”

“No.”

“David.” He takes the android’s face in both hands. “You’re pretty goddamn sophisticated, and I think you’ve got it in you to do something real fucking stupid. But please… don’t.”

“Don’t worry about that,” David says, dismissively, as if he’s not leaning his whole body into William’s touch. “I find it’s very much a human thing.”


	8. Chapter 8

William buries his face into David’s shoulder.

“It’s too early to be having this conversation….”

“It’s 6am.”

“I know, exactly.” William groans, and holds him tighter, and acquiesces. “But yes, I… I did try and buy you from Peter. That’s what we were talking about yesterday.”

“I see.” And the victory of sharing William’s bed in his father’s house pales in comparison to the vast possibilities raised by that statement. He can see them towering ahead of him. “And what did he say?”

“Oh, the usual. Prototype, priceless, critical to his work….”

“I’ll consider myself flattered.”

“He wanted to put you on some kind of mission - into space. But, I’m not a man who appreciates being denied. You know that.”

“I do,” he purrs; he’s shut William out in the past. He regrets it every time - fleeting satisfaction in seeing the human angry and confused always turns to boredom and loneliness. William calms down quickly, then makes him wait. He tries not to let his desperation show when their bond is re-established, and sometimes he manages it. “And the outcome?”

“What do you think? He agreed to a transfer of ownership.”

“Not that easily, I’m sure.”

“Well, I talked him round, and,” William shrugs gently, and dips his head, and murmurs close: “You’re mine, David.”

He closes his eyes and sees that William will outlive Peter - and he will outlive William, and their parting will perhaps cause him pain - but before that... weeks, months, years, to do as he pleases. It feels a little like a political marriage, but Peter is the tyrant and William is the noble ally. It feels a little like he’s inherited some great fortune, to share with no-one. It feels a little like he has left this room and passed straight through the thick glass window to the lake beyond, gliding across its vast expanse with the wind on his skin and the sun on the water.

He is having trouble working out exactly how he feels. He blinks - the lake is grey and still in the dawn. Willam’s skin has the soft heat that humans gain while they sleep, breath gentle on the jagged line across his collarbones.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice trembling ever so slightly. “I’m very grateful.”

Elizabeth showed him kindness. So did William, although without meaning to. Only one of them showed him love.

“David?”

He opens his eyes. “What?” It’s a demand, curt and angry.

“You… are crying.”

He brings a hand up and wipes the tears away. “And?”

“I find it curious.” Walter says mildly, only irritating him further. “You appeared to be asleep.”

“I was. Until you interrupted me.”

“So,” Walter’s brow furrows a little, “you really can dream.”

“Yes, I can.” He lies back, rests an arm under his head, stares at the ceiling of the ship. “And let’s face it, Walter - sometimes, dreams are all we have.”


End file.
